


Best Of Dark And Bright

by CBlue



Series: Geraskier Week (2020) [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: First Time, Love Confessions, M/M, Roach and Jaskier Friendship, and I don't even think it's that explicit, this is literally as explicit as I get, we all wanna fuck Geralt's hot black eyed look
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22792003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CBlue/pseuds/CBlue
Summary: Humming, Jaskier closed his eyes and allowed himself the touch of his witcher. “I really was worried, you careless brute.”“You shouldn’t,” Geralt spoke gruffly, voice shaking his chest and rumbling Jaskier like the earth herself shaking from where he stood. The witcher opened his eyes, something smoldering within them as he looked to Jaskier. So much heat that when the bard opened his eyes to match the gaze he was scorched. Bones turned to goo as Jaskier gripped Geralt to keep his balance.“But I do,” Jaskier let out in a breath. “It doesn’t matter how strong and sexy you are,” he let his words steal away from him, “someone has to worry about you.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier Week (2020) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639330
Comments: 23
Kudos: 474





	Best Of Dark And Bright

**Author's Note:**

> THIS WAS FOR DAY TWO BUT FAMILY AND BUSY SCHEDULE PREVENTED ME FROM FINISHING AND POSTING AND I KNOW I'M BEHIND SCHEDULE BUT I'M ACTUALLY MOTIVATED TO FINISH GERASKIER WEEK EVEN IF I END UP FINISHING IT AFTER THE TIME FRAME. Day Two's prompt for Geraskier Week was Monster Hunt. Check out @geraskierweek on Tumblr and come scream at me on @corancoranthemagicalman!

There was always something thrilling about following Geralt into battle. It was, perhaps, because it led Jaskier into his most primal thinking. It had led Geralt into his most instinctual, witchering ways too. Inky black eyes from his potion bore into Jaskier before the witcher was off on his hunt. Jaskier would be thrice-damned as Valdo Marx in another life if he couldn't admit that he was  _ attracted _ to that feral look in his witcher, moonlight reflecting off the silver of his blade.

_ Melitele’s tits, _ Geralt of Rivia could hold him down and bear him into the nearest tree if he so wished. And how often Jaskier had wished he had wished.

Strumming the strings of his elvish lute, Jaskier tried to distract himself. He could hear the silence of the night, the telltale sign that something large and predatory had scared away any small creatures that would usually surround the area. Jaskier was certain that with how silent the night was that he could hear Geralt’s blades clashing - not that the battle had begun yet. His White Wolf was still stalking his contract.

Jaskier snorted a laugh, turning to face Roach. “O’ Faithful Witcher Companion, True and Noble Mare,” he cooed, “you don’t think me a fool, do you?” He eyed the edge of the clearing where Geralt had disappeared into. “I mean, it was bound to happen, wasn’t it? Bound that someone would gaze upon his visage, watch those sharp teeth uncork one of his foul-scented potions, watch him as it slid down his throat as he exposed that exquisite column of his neck, watch those golden eyes be overshadowed by the things that make him a witcher?” The bard hummed, raising an eyebrow as he waited for an answer.

Roach snickered, shaking her head at the foolish bard. Jaskier could do nothing but grin in return until his words came to him. “Oh, I have always been a fool. And you have always thought of me as such.” Sighing, Jaskier strummed along his lute again. “But as it was his Destiny to be a witcher, I suppose it was my Destiny to follow him.”

Clicking his tongue, Jaskier stashed away his lute for a moment as he stretched where he sat. “Well, Destiny didn’t have to bless him with such a fine arse and bless me with excellent taste.”

Another sound like a huff of laughter came from Jaskier’s companion. The bard closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. He had never felt in danger on hunts with Geralt. The witcher would always keep the beasts to their playground and always win his fights. And he knew that would always be true until the day came that his witcher was too slow or his lunges not deep enough.

That would not be today.

Jaskier had to remind himself it would not be today. Or else a chill would rise up his spine like a dagger being slid across his skin. Anxiety made Jaskier’s skin itch, so he bounced. Bouncing his leg in a way that Roach mirrored with a shuffling of her hoof, Jaskier chewed at his lip while they both lay in wait.

“He’s taking too long,” Jaskier breathed out, standing but making no move to follow wherever his witcher may be. “Should I go?” He turned to face Roach, reaching out for her mane as a source of comfort.

Roach whinnied, uncertainty lacing what was not quite words and unsettling Jaskier. “You’re right,” he whispered, “I should go after him.” The bard pulled out the dagger that he kept in his boot at Geralt’s insistence.

Slowly, the ground crunched beneath his feet as he trembled forward. Cold sweat beaded upon him as he strained human ears to listen for any sign of his witcher or the monster they had come out to slay. By they, Jaskier meant Geralt would take care of it. Would usually take care of it. Why wasn’t he back yet?

Jaskier gulped as his steps drew him closer to the thicket, away from the sanctuary of the clearing and Roach’s presence. Just as he encroached upon the threshold, the trees and foliage shook with a mighty figure. The bard gasped, readying his silvered dagger to strike. But before he could slash, draw blood, it was the White Wolf who had come prowling out from the dark.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathed in relief, allowing his knife to drop as he reached for the witcher. “ _ Melitele, _ you had Roach and I worried.”

The mare seemed to huff at the insinuation, preferring to keep a stoic demeanor like her rider. Jaskier glared at her traitorous confession before turning his worried glance back to Geralt. “Fine, I confess it. It was I who was worried about you. Roach has always been much braver than I, though her faith in you is evenly matched by myself.” He allowed his hands to flutter over Geralt’s form but not to touch. “Are you hurt? Is everything intact?”

The witcher huffed, dark eyes still affected by his potion bearing into Jaskier. “Hmm,” he said instead, hand grasping the back of Jaskier’s neck and pulling the bard close.

Humming, Jaskier closed his eyes and allowed himself the touch of his witcher. “I really was worried, you careless brute.”

“You shouldn’t,” Geralt spoke gruffly, voice shaking his chest and rumbling Jaskier like the earth herself shaking from where he stood. The witcher opened his eyes, something smoldering within them as he looked to Jaskier. So much heat that when the bard opened his eyes to match the gaze he was scorched. Bones turned to goo as Jaskier gripped Geralt to keep his balance.

“But I do,” Jaskier let out in a breath. “It doesn’t matter how strong and sexy you are,” he let his words steal away from him, “someone has to worry about you.”

Geralt’s thumb brushed at Jaskier’s cheek, eyes dark but no less readable. No less hungry. After completing a contract, Geralt was left high on his adrenaline. Whether it was potions, the battle, or perhaps some witcher mutation, the White Wolf was sharper, shoulders tensed and poised for something primal.

And, well, Jaskier had  _ wanted _ primal. Despite Geralt wanting nothing, apparently.

He felt his cheeks flush at the sudden attention of Geralt. Or rather, not so sudden, but quickly advancing. They had been moving toward this, Jaskier’s romantic heart had cried out. But now dark eyes had ensnared him and he felt like prey. Wanted to fall to the jaws of the White Wolf of Rivia.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, quivering as Geralt buried his nose into the bard’s neck. “ _ Ger- _ ”

“The potion,” Geralt grunted, usual growling, monosyllabic communication breaking way to broken words as he breathed hotly against Jaskier’s throat. Another sharp inhale and Geralt was pulling away, turning that blackened gaze from him and Jaskier felt his knees buckle with how weak he was, how much he wanted.

But Jaskier understood now. This was not a heroic knight returning from vanquishing a beast. This was his witcher returning from a hunt. This was Geralt of Rivia with his gruff demeanor and beautiful golden eyes bleeding ink as his slow beating heart rushed adrenaline through his veins. Perhaps  _ primal  _ but not  _ wanting _ , and for as much fun as Jaskier could admit to having, he could never keep this. Never allow them to have something primal when all Jaskier had was wanting.

Geralt’s jaw clenched and Jaskier could hear it as it ticked. Furrowing his brow, Jaskier cleared his throat. “Uh, any sort of patching we’ll have to do tonight?” He asked ineloquently, at a loss of words as blood thrashed through his body and his ears rang with his heartbeat.

“No,” the witcher spoke tensely, shoulders tight as he brushed past Jaskier toward Roach and her saddlebags. He kept his gaze pointedly away from Jaskier’s own.

Shame flushed hot in Jaskier’s belly. Perhaps he had disappointed his witcher, but perhaps - if he knew Geralt of Rivia as well as he thought he did - that witcher’s own sense of worth seemed to be doing much of the thinking. How could Jaskier tell him it was not from lack of want? Jaskier wanted too much and it was rather unfair.

“Geralt,” Jaskier called out to him, halting the Witcher in his steps. “It’s not-” He cut himself off. His footing was unsolid ground. Every word was a gentle footfall that could make the ice break from under him, and Jaskier was not sure if Geralt was willing to take the plunge with him.

Slowly, Geralt turned his face to him, but kept those black eyes away. His skin was glistening with its pale hue in the night. A witcher, he stood; a monster, some called him. “Geralt,” Jaskier spoke again, knowing him, reaching for him.

“Hmm,” the witcher grunted. His tight shoulders shrugged and he made to return to the camp again.

“ _ Geralt of Rivia _ ,” Jaskier called, a furrow to his brow. “You do not get to rouse up a man and leave him-” the bard cut himself off for only a moment to find his words, like taking pause in a song. “You come out of a monster hunt, coated in your victory and swaggering like a man with a mission only to rile me up and then act as if I have spurned you when I have made the decision not to allow your wandering adrenaline search for an outlet.”

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say with the way that Geralt coiled. He bared his teeth as he turned away from Jaskier, but the bard could catch his fangs beneath the moon. “I’ll be sure to keep my  _ wandering adrenaline _ to myself next time.”

Jaskier guffawed, arms swinging before finding purchase on his hips. “Oh! You know  _ very well  _ that is not what I meant!” He shouted, not fearing what would come out of the night with his witcher beside him. “You know very well the way I yearn for you and I know very well that despite whatever lustfulness you can smell on me that I am but what circumstances dictate for you. Rather convenient and wanting, aren’t I? And it would be so  _ easy  _ for me to say yes. I want to say yes with the way you were looking at me,” he rambled, body beginning to pace as his own adrenaline coursed through him, powered him in a human way like one of Geralt’s potions could never allow to happen.

“ _ Jaskier _ -” Geralt began, but Jaskier was not yet finished.

“But my heart is but a hummingbird in a large forest. Ever moving and changing until it's found its nest. And as if it were not obvious enough, I have taken my nest in your fur -  _ hair. _ ” He corrected his purple prose, lost to his words and sentiment. He could bury himself in his words, keep himself hidden there as he had done before. Anything was better than exposing himself.

He could not explain why he had done it. Perhaps just to prove to Geralt that he was  _ wanted _ . Even though he would not say yes to Geralt’s sudden urge that would pass like a season - even as unexpected an urge when usually his White Wolf was so in control of his urges - he  _ wanted. _

“ _ Meletite’s eyes _ , I want you, Geralt,” Jaskier breathed out slowly, calming himself. He had already spoken more words than what had made him or Geralt comfortable. “But you… you want no one needing you. And I cannot deny how I  _ need _ you, my White Wolf.”

Black eyes, beaded like a shark, pierced through Jaskier’s soul as Geralt turned to face him fully. Jaskier could not tell if the tension in Geralt’s shoulders had eased or sharpened. It was unsettling and yet Jaskier  _ craved _ . Craved for those large, sword-callused hands to have their way with him. Craved those sharp wolf fangs at his throat. Craved that heated gaze from blackened, potion slick eyes on him as Geralt whispered  _ wanting _ things.

But Geralt of Rivia did not want, and he most certainly did not want Jaskier. The bard had long since resigned himself to that fate.

“The village that contracted this job is less than an hour away,” Geralt spoke into the silence between them.

When he did not elaborate, Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “And?” The bard prodded, pulling Geralt’s truth from him.

“Cat lasts longer than that,” he answered shortly, gruff demeanor hiding whatever else he would not say.

Sighing, Jaskier rolled his eyes at the lack of words. “And what, Geralt?” He furrowed his brow. “Don’t make me repeat myself. I know you seem to think that your fiendish and threatening with your eyes inked and your skin lacking any natural-looking pigment, but -  _ honestly  _ \- you know how you look!” He huffed, gesturing with a flailing hand. “Just because I am one of those of finer tastes who can  _ truly _ appreciate such a fine specimen as Geralt of Rivia does  _ not _ mean I’d like to have you claw at my heart. Much as I’d like you to claw at my everything else, thank you.”

“Jaskier,” and this time it was Geralt to give an exasperated sigh. “You are the only human fool enough to gaze upon a witcher with lust.”

“ _ Lust _ , he says.” Jaskier spat bitterly. “I shan’t deny that I was born a thrill-seeking bastard, but I would think my love confession would lace any satiating you think I need with sentiment.” The bard inhaled sharply, unable to hold Geralt’s unreadable gaze. Black eyes were difficult to spot in the dark, save for their reflective nature. Where once there had been hunger now lay something else. Something that set Jaskier upon the edge of a knife.

Geralt took a step forward, fangs like pearls in the ocean of his form. “You are the only human foolish enough to wish to bed me whilst I look like this.” He continued, undeterred by Jaskier’s apparent interjection. “Most run. I have had to stalk outside villages to wait my potions out.”

“I suppose that’s another quirk of myself,” Jaskier sighed, “the only man with enough taste to appreciate all shades of your complexion.” He bemoaned as he looked over to Roach. “I told you, dear girl. Only man on the Continent with any taste worth mentioning.”

The witcher raised a brow, mouth tripping into something akin of a smirk. “A fool, indeed, to think that I have need of an  _ outlet _ .”

Jaskier gaped, once more his hands flew to his hips. Affronted, the bard began again. “I’ll have you know that I am a  _ wonderful _ lay, or else I have been told. I have taken lovers, you know. While I may have only had fleeting feelings for them, I am no less passionate.” He rolled his eyes, huffing at the feathers atop his hat. “Now, you may be a creature of a deeper passion than I, but a delicate passion is nothing to scoff at. Even if your witchering sensibilities would never permit you to take something as  _ dainty _ as I.”

And perhaps Jaskier sounded more bitter than he had intended with the way Geralt’s teasing lips thinned. Something flashed across the thin layer of midnight on his eyes before the witcher’s hand raised to Jaskier’s face. His thumb brushed against the bard’s cheek.

“ _ Dainty? _ ” He echoed. “Do  _ dainty _ things follow a witcher into a bog with naught but a dagger at their side?”

“Well,” Jaskier spoke breathlessly, mind hardly conjuring a counterargument before Geralt resumed.

“No,” Geralt answered sternly before continuing. “I do not hold dainty things. My hands would break them.” His brow furrowed as a frown set into those otherwise perfectly kissable lips. “I fear breaking you too, Jaskier, but the greater fear is not holding you tight enough.”

Jaskier inhaled sharply, turning to kiss Geralt’s palm with bravery he did not know he could muster. “Then hold me tightly, my White Wolf.” He whispered into the witcher’s skin. “For tonight I wish the jaws of my wolf on my throat as I sing his name.”

“Hmm,” the witcher hummed, hand moving to grip at the base of Jaskier’s neck. A swordsman’s grip latched at his short locks, pulling to expose the skin of his neck further. “A fool who wishes for a monster at his throat.”

Gulping, Jaskier forced the words out of his burning throat. “A beast you may be; a monster you are not.” It was difficult to make his gaze reach Geralt’s dark eyes, but no task was too great when it was for his witcher. With trepidation that was only the result of Jaskier’s fast-beating heart, he moved his hand to rest atop Geralt’s chest. While he would never have the senses to hear or feel Geralt’s heart, Jaskier knew it resided there. Knew it beat strong for all the things his witcher would deny it did.

A flash of hot breath prickled over Jaskier’s skin as Geralt leaned forward. The bard could feel those sharp teeth flash, grazing over his goosebumped skin. He moaned rather unattractively, eyes rolling before he had to close them from the stimulation. Jaskier had never considered himself  _ easy _ but he was, in this very moment, both weak and wanting.

“A fool,” Geralt spoke, moving his mouth from the front of Jaskier’s neck to the side of his column. Slowly, tortuously, he mouthed at the exposed skin, biting with those ever sharp teeth before drawing back to lick at the love bite. “And a fool who follows him.”

“I believe it is I who follows you,” Jaskier spoke around another moan as he clutched to the front of Geralt’s armor. “So that makes you the first fool.”

Chuckling, Geralt nipped along his skin again. This time, Jaskier felt his knees wobble for a moment. Jaskier laughed. Laughed at himself, laughed at this first touch. Humorous and wonderful all at once. Jaskier’s laugh quickly melted into another flourishing moan as he allowed himself to touch Geralt’s bare skin, to selfishly take what was perhaps being offered. At least, Jaskier hoped it was being offered.

Roach’s snort was distant, and suddenly the sensation of dirt surrounded Jaskier as cold mud soaked through his thin silks. The sweet earth underneath him and Geralt, stenching of a fresh kill above him, and Jaskier felt pinned beneath the weight of his White Wolf. To be happily buried in the dark as Geralt buried his nose into the crook of his neck, large hands beginning to strip Jaskier of his doublet.

“Oh,  _ Geralt _ ,” Jaskier’s tongue spoke before he could rein it in. His hands pulled at the witcher’s usually silken hair knotted and coated with unmentionable creature parts. The pull caused Geralt to grow deep into Jaskier’s chest as he trailed open mouth kisses down the length of his exposed body.

Jaskier’s pants felt tight, too constrained, as he wrapped his legs around Geralt’s waist. He was comfortable enough with his manhood to admit that he ground upon Geralt, longing for friction to his hardening cock. His grip on Geralt tightened even as his right hand fell to the witcher’s face, fingers splaying across that granite profile.

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s breath was molten across the bard’s hand before he turned thinned lips and closed to his palm. Inhaling sharply, Geralt opened those dark eyes and Jaskier felt his body begin to weep.

“Please,” Jaskier begged, for he was not above begging when he was wanting. He dragged Geralt’s face toward his own, but Jaskier knew the witcher was coming willingly when no fight was put up. Jaskier closed his eyes, taking in a ragged breath.

Jaskier was surprised to find that Geralt returned his ragged breath. It was lower, less obvious, but present and the bard could swear there was a ballad in the low pounding of the witcher’s heart. One to which his own heart harmonized. The witcher’s large hands roamed, cupping his waist before he began to claw at the silks which held Jaskier.

“These are expensive, you -  _ oh, please, _ ” Jaskier quickly remedied as Geralt’s efforts exposed his leaking cock. Weeping, weeping and wanting just like the rest of him. And Geralt’s hand was so perfectly sized for grasping him, taking him.

Geralt was in far too much armor. Jaskier did not much care how filthy his nails were becoming, prying that black studded armor, covered in monster, away from that Herculean body. That glistening skin, almost sickly pale with his potion, shone like a river beneath twilight. It made his enumerable scars pink, like lightning stretching across the sky or a painter’s rogue brush across a canvas. Jaskier had not realized how his fingers traced every mark until Geralt stilled in his actions.

“ _ He walks in beauty, like the night. Of clouded climes and starry skies; _ ” Jaskier hummed softly, words of a poet he once read twisted on his tongue, “ _ And all that’s best of dark and bright meet in his aspect and in his eyes. _ ”

Silence was Geralt’s response as his gaze, bright life, and dark sky, bore into Jaskier. He grunted, nose grazing behind Jaskier’s ear. “Doesn’t sound like one of yours,” the witcher spoke lowly, hands swallowing Jaskier’s body as they roamed.

“It isn’t,” Jaskier chuckled, hands prying at Geralt’s trousers as he spoke. “Some old lord - Brian or something - came up with the sentiment, but it still holds firm.” His hands were stilled by Geralt’s sword hand over his wrists, gently holding him.

“ _ Jaskier _ ,” Geralt growled, low and fierce and  _ wondrous _ as he settled himself betwixt Jaskier’s thighs more firmly. With finesse, Geralt removed himself from his pants and pinned the bard’s arms to the ground above his head. “ _ Sentiment _ ,” he bared his teeth to Jaskier’s throat as his opposite hand tickled along the bard’s thigh. His hand prickled along the thin hairs of Jaskier’s leg, sending a shiver in the witcher’s wake.

“ _ Sentiment _ ,” the witcher continued his growl. “ _ Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey. _ ” Geralt’s tongue, rough and heated, lapped at Jaskier’s skin as his fingers pressed into velvet, causing the bard to gasp.

Throwing his head back, Jaskier’s hands struggled against Geralt’s hold for any amount of leverage. His toes curled into the dirt even when he could not place the moment he had lost his boots in the first place. “A-and whose words are those?” He teased with a breathless laugh. “Or has my wolf become a poet?”

Jaskier could feel the smile against his throat, the fangs catching on his skin. “Same lord,” Geralt whispered before thrusting knuckles deep into Jaskier’s wanting body.

“ _ Geralt _ ,” Jaskier sang, body curling into the witcher’s frame as pleasure wracked through him. Pale fingers thrusted, raking in course both gentle and primal as Geralt’s eyes pinned Jaskier along with the rest of his weight. The prey caught beneath the weight of his White Wolf as Geralt took what Jaskier was so willingly giving. As Jaskier  _ wanted _ and perhaps Geralt  _ wanted  _ too.

Another breathless chuckle escaped Geralt before he removed his hand, trailing beautiful bruises that Jaskier hoped he would feel for days. The witcher painted his skin with small marks, all confessions in their own right, all causing Jaskier’s head to swim until the pressure of Geralt’s cock came into focus. Its beading head pulsed, waiting to pounce as Geralt remained poised above Jaskier.

Panting, Jaskier preened beneath that ink eyed attention. “Geralt of Rivia, if you do not  _ move _ -” the bard made to argue, but argument died as Geralt lunged for him, pressing into him, capturing him.

“ _ Gods, _ Geralt,” Jaskier breathed, pleasure and pain making his skin itch for a moment until the broiling turned into a smoldering heat. Comforting as the witcher’s cool skin on his blazing body felt. Jaskier felt like he could sigh in comfort if he did not so desire stimulation. So desire for Geralt to  _ move _ .

Grunting, Geralt built up a pace. Slow at first, testing the waters before growing confident in his strides. Confident in his bruising pace as he moved his hands to Jaskier’s waist. Relief as Jaskier was able to clutch at Geralt’s shoulders, grasp and urge him to move. A ruthlessness that Geralt fought within a battle and yet a gentleness that he kept his touch to.  _ Overwhelming _ , Jaskier thought. Overwhelming and  _ wanting _ .

Jaskier grinned, legs tightening around Geralt’s waist as the dirt ate into his shoulders, caressed him in this moment of passion with his White Wolf. “ _ More, _ ” he encouraged gently, “please, Geralt.”

Nails sharp dug into Jaskier’s side, fangs piercing pricked at his throat, cock throbbing penetrated and rocked Jaskier over and over until he felt like spilling. But his eyes, eyes like the dark consuming him until Jaskier felt it seep into his bones. Until he felt that large sword hand grasp his length, take him with every thrust. Until it was nothing but Geralt fucking him into the dirt, taking him, claiming him with tongue and teeth.

“Jaskier,” Geralt beckoned Jaskier over the edge.

The bard cried his name again, spilling over his fingers as the heated coil in his stomach released. The witcher followed after, grunting and shoving his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck. Where the bard was certain that his sweat and scent were the richest. Gently, Geralt pulled out, release spilling over them and marking the sweet earth with this moment. Unfurling from his position underneath Geralt, Jaskier huffed to catch his breath.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier smiled, breathless as he combed Geralt’s hair away from his face. The witcher’s features were still contorted by the potion he had earlier consumed. “Well, for once I am without words.”

Geralt snickered a laugh, burying his face into Jaskier’s clavicle. “If I had known this was the way to shut you up, I would have done it sooner.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, face happily flushed. “Oh, from poet to comic goes my witcher,” the bard idly played with Geralt’s locks, grimacing when creature bits mingled with his grip. “Gods, we need to get you bathed. You’re disgusting.” Although Jaskier’s words opposed his actions as he continued to comb lute-calloused fingers through rugged hair.

“You don’t seem to think so,” Geralt raised a brow, calling Jaskier on his bluff.

The bard chuckled instead, chewing at his lip before closing his eyes with a gentle sigh. “No, I don’t think so at all, my White Wolf.” Opening his eyes again, Jaskier was granted the view of moonlight skin and shadowed eyes. A large expanse of skin marked with his life, the life of a witcher, a fighter, and a lover. Perhaps it had not been treated as tenderly as Geralt had deserved, but Jaskier was going to change that. One touch at a time.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted before lowering himself to lay across Jaskier’s chest. The weight - while heavy - was comforting. Jaskier hummed an old love ballad under his breath as he curled into Geralt.

“Geralt?” Jaskier called gently, but already the witcher seemed to succumb to sleep. Releasing a gentle breath, the bard kissed the top of Geralt’s head softly. “Sleep, love.”

The witcher nuzzled further into Jaskier space, grip around his waist tightening, but gave no response. Jaskier could be happy with that. Happy with something perhaps not  _ primal  _ or  _ wanting  _ but  _ Geralt _ . Roach whinnied, seeming to roll her eyes from where she had stood in the distance.

Jaskier huffed a laugh. “I know,” he spoke gently, “a wanting fool am I.”

**Author's Note:**

> The "old poet lord named Brian" is definitely Lord Byron. His iconic "she walks in beauty" has been commandeered for Jaskier's romantic purposes.
> 
> “She walks in beauty, like the night  
> Of cloudless climes and starry skies;  
> And all that's best of dark and bright  
> Meet in her aspect and her eyes...”  
> ― Lord Byron
> 
> “Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.”  
> ― Lord Byron


End file.
